Why, Ethan, Why?!?!? :(

by Brynn MacNab, regrettably

Why This Crown? by The DIY Publisher

The woman had long, slender, golden-brown legs, well-shaped with muscle, not so much muscle that she seemed butch, just enough to be super sexy. Above the legs were sleek curves like the curves on a foreign racecar, and above the curves her face looked like a Renaissance painting. But not just any Renaissance painting. A Renaissance painting of the face of a really gorgeous woman.

Ethan leaned back in his black office chair. “Wow,” he barked hoarsely. “What are you doing here at Cottage Industries, the foremost manufacturer of prefab cottages on the Eastern seaboard? Wait, don’t tell me.” His ruggedly handsome face smiled dazzlingly. “You’re the stripper. I knew the guys would hire me one, since I’m getting married this weekend to Evelyn, who is not as pretty as she sounds although she is the best I could realistically do and she’s also really nice.” He leaned forward so his feet were flat on the floor and looked furtively toward the yawning maw of the tyrannical boss’s office door. “I guess I’m ready for my lap dance, but please don’t turn the music up too loud.”

“The boss won’t mind,” the plain-looking woman in the next cubicle warbled amusedly. Her name was Helen, and she had cheeks pockmarked by acne even while her skin still occasionally broke out. She was turning forty-seven next week and she liked to butt into Ethan’s business because she had no kids and had pretty much given up on her own life. “You’re getting married! You can do what you want for four more days! Enjoy it! My stupid husband ruined my life.” She turned sourly back to her computer solitaire game.

“I’m not a stripper,” the gorgeous woman, whom Ethan would later find out was also, coincidentally, named Evelyn, purred lasciviously. “Lord Ethan, please to follow me obediently. It is time for you to assume the hallowed throne of your deceased forebears and save all of Xtypobyn from ruin!!”

She spun on a pencil-thin heel, crooked a long delicate finger at her astonished lord, and sashayed forth down the cubicle aisle like a knight riding into battle against a big dragon.

Ethan grabbed the handheld mirror from his drawer and checked his teeth for lunch bits. If he’s a lord, he needs to look good. His teeth gleam evenly and whitely, because the pre-wedding whitening regimen is really paying off. I took a moment to survey the rest of my face: limpid blue eyes, strong square chin, normal-sized nose, two ears, pretty good cheekbones, well-shaped eyebrows, and full shock of luxuriously curling dark hair. He gives himself a wolf-whistle and leers. “Hey, maybe I AM a lord!”

“The most important thing to remember,” said hot Evelyn’s melodious voice, “is that you have to protect me no matter what! I am the living heart of Xtypobyn!” The name rolled off of her tongue like a song, or like the way Spanish-speaking people say their R’s. (My uncle Taylor would say it’s how Mexicans talk, but that’s because he’s a fat racist and I, gentle reader, am not.) “By the way, my name is Evelyn.”

All of a sudden, Ethan woke up in bed, next to regular Evelyn. “Oh no!” he whispered frantically. “It was just a dream!” Then he opened his clenched fist and saw a round gold ounce coin. The face on it looked a lot like his, and it said “For Xtypobyn” in a script a lot like the computer font Papyrus.

And he was totally misreading the signs. Far away, Xtypobyn fell into horrible chaos without him over the next several months.

For instance, there was this one battle where hot Evelyn and her best friend, Malcolm, a talking vampire dog, fought off eighty hobgoblins and a dragon, but in the end the dragon ate Malcolm who was the last royal dog in the line of royal dogs of Xtypobyn. That was a terrible blow. But hot Evelyn escaped. If Ethan had been there they would have won the battle and then had hot monkey sex on the carcasses of their enemies. Malcolm would have watched awkwardly like dogs do. But he would have provided awkward commentary also because he talks, too.

Ethan didn’t know or care about any of that lost potential. He married 98.6 degree Evelyn and was medium-happy for a few years before sliding inevitably into a middle-aged depression and from there, of course, slipping gently into the nursing home and then came his death.

So follow your dreams, kids. And say it with me now: “I don’t believe in metaphors!”

Like this:

Brynn MacNab is uniquely qualified to present this story, as she is secretly the princess of an unpronounceable--I mean, exotically named--land. She is deeply offended to be included in the Journal of Unlikely Story Acceptances, although something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. She has been writing fantasy for far too long to continue to get away with it. If you would like to subject yourself to more of her published stories, you can find them at brynnmacnab.blogspot.com.

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